the church was before us
all red brick and
made up
to look like
a place where
people go
to get married
or
to die.
we had the hope
that after mass
we'd all be able
to order hot fudge sundaes.
the leaves were no longer on the trees
but the snow was not yet on the ground.
it was the in between of the seasons
and a warm morning meant
a cold night.
i traced the carvings on the end of the pews
with my fingers
and kneeled when i was told
and didn't question
much.
everyone i loved
was still alive.
everything i dreamed of
was still just beyond
the fence in the field.
i counted the beams in the ceiling.
i counted the women wearing hats.
i counted my sister's chicken pox.
i did not count
the stations of the cross
stained in the glass windows.
i did not memorize
the apostle's creed.
the only creed i knew
was barefoot in a muddy creek
and correctly identifying poison ivy
before it is too late.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
an answer looking for a question
gone a real walk with my pretend fiance and our pretend dog.
saw the real moon
and what may or may not have been
a falling star.
it could have been space debris.
but is there anything more romantic than out-dated russian satellites
spinning unexpected fire through the atmosphere?
my pretend fiance doesn't think so.
she told me to make a wish,
so i did.
now i'm wondering, was that wish pretend or for real?
saw the real moon
and what may or may not have been
a falling star.
it could have been space debris.
but is there anything more romantic than out-dated russian satellites
spinning unexpected fire through the atmosphere?
my pretend fiance doesn't think so.
she told me to make a wish,
so i did.
now i'm wondering, was that wish pretend or for real?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
we are all star stuff
sometimes, each one of us is just a lonely teenager.
there isn't much we can do about it,
it's human
and we're human
and that's all.
its why we have oldies radio stations
and 24-hour diners
glowing at night
like radioactive mushrooms.
it's why we all love 50's cars
and saxophones
and four-part
harmony.
but really,
in every moment
we are lonely teenagers.
and we are shaky grandparents.
and we are newborn babies,
and we are all of the everythings-in-between.
the only thing we are not
is
non-existant.
“the old records never had drums,” she said. i turned my head to the side, like i do when i want her to teach me one of her lovely little lessons. it's amazing. she knows everything that i don't.
“the recording... disc... acetane, maybe, the master needle would bounce up and down with the drums. so they used cardboard boxes and stuff.”
she was always half right. but it was always the good half, the honest half,
the half that i needed to know.
“let's drive to new york. we can listen to oldies the whole way,
and only stop for apple pie and coffee.”
she always had great ideas, too. only, we didn't have a car. and if we did, we couldn't afford the gas to arizona. and we could only get her medicine in mexico.
“i won't run out. we'll be back before you know it.”
and with that she pushed me back onto the sofa,
and we forgot about new york and cars and arizona.
there isn't much we can do about it,
it's human
and we're human
and that's all.
its why we have oldies radio stations
and 24-hour diners
glowing at night
like radioactive mushrooms.
it's why we all love 50's cars
and saxophones
and four-part
harmony.
but really,
in every moment
we are lonely teenagers.
and we are shaky grandparents.
and we are newborn babies,
and we are all of the everythings-in-between.
the only thing we are not
is
non-existant.
“the old records never had drums,” she said. i turned my head to the side, like i do when i want her to teach me one of her lovely little lessons. it's amazing. she knows everything that i don't.
“the recording... disc... acetane, maybe, the master needle would bounce up and down with the drums. so they used cardboard boxes and stuff.”
she was always half right. but it was always the good half, the honest half,
the half that i needed to know.
“let's drive to new york. we can listen to oldies the whole way,
and only stop for apple pie and coffee.”
she always had great ideas, too. only, we didn't have a car. and if we did, we couldn't afford the gas to arizona. and we could only get her medicine in mexico.
“i won't run out. we'll be back before you know it.”
and with that she pushed me back onto the sofa,
and we forgot about new york and cars and arizona.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
on the ninth anniversary of cliff-jumping
green river, washington
cliff jumping and all of it's against-the-need-for-survival giddiness
the diffusion of anxiety by the muddy bottom
the cold water
and that deep breath just above it.
writing is my excuse
to be insane
illogical
and
not
get
caught
a secret:
i don't understand the fence. "the two houses looked so lovely together," she said when we had turned the corner. through the car window, two women doing the dishes. she had slowed and was crawling, not sure if the fence had been real or imagined. one of the dish-women looked up. she noted the car, probably, the fact that there was a strange man inside, with beard and ray-ban wayfarer's staring right at her, and possibly the color of the body. i noted that it was 3:13 pm, thinking that it might be better if i knew the time, just in case she reported to the police under cause of suspician- "3:13 pm," i could tell the officer, "i noted that the occuser looked at me, a split second before, long before, i looked at her." 3:13 pm. the fence had indeed been built, between to california craftsmen, built themselves in the twenties, just one year apart, on the same corner of fort stockton and eagle. they weren't twins, not by a long shot, but both were low-rolling and slept eight comfortably, two to a bedroom and two on the living room rug. the corner house was brighter, less severe, and had a beautiful rounded frieze around the front porch. red, we called her, with her red-painted steps. blue, her sister, was fortified against howling storms, with a windowed porch, all battleship-towered and rectangled. red was warm, nice in the winter. blue was cool, a cavern of cold air in the summer. between them grew grapes and grapefruits and kumquats and endless insect-highways of night-blooming jasmine. a patio, trellised and morning-bright, directly between the two. there we would sit and drink coffee, her reading a rocky and long-winded American Journal of Geoarchaeology, and me half a New Yorker and three pages of her latest thesis. she studied too much, and too often. but she was good in bed. the fence cut it directly in half, that porticullo patio of ours. right down the middle. if we had been sitting there when it built itself, we would have ended up one of us on each side. in our own yard. they had built the fucking thing and split us up. hypothetically. the dish-woman had long-since alerted her parter (friend?sister-in-law?teaching-assistant?) of our presence. i think we'd better go, was all i could say. i didn't know that she had been crying until she looked right at me. "go back," she said. serious. and so i did. i was sure the dish-woman would dial 9-1-1, and i was sure that our good luck would result in us only being shot through the legs trying to run away." i'm knocking on the door", she said, "and i'm telling them to take it down." ladies and tenants and newly married home-buyers, tear down your walls! you are not, i said. i am, i am, i am. (her again).
i know her well. i know her good, and i know her bad. and sometimes, she'll just get up and do something that i never would have expected, not in a week, not in a month, not in ten years of imagining the things she would do. stay in the car, she whispered to me with bedroom intensity. i stayed in the car. i watched her move up the red steps, her steps. she sat down. she stood up. she was wearing white skinny leg jeans. they looked good against the stairs. i wanted to take a picture. in the glove box, the old camera that i kept there for sunsets and moments of unparelled and never-to-be-repeated beauty. of which this, the white skinny leg jeans on the red stairs, was one. i got out of the car, with the intention of taking pictures, a dozen or more, when i suddenly discovered that i needed only one. she was looking away, across her right shoulder, at a hummingbird up above the grapefruit tree, floating like they do, humming. the sun was gold, yellow, and everything was glowing in the non-warmth of a low sunset. to be less poetic: it was the most beautiful fucking thing i had ever seen. and i took it. i took it, and i meant to follow her up, and kiss her on the porch, and pound the door off of it's hinges and convince them with fists or words or lips to tear the fench down, when she stood up. and instead of walking towards the house. she began to walk away from it, and back to the car.
it is important to know about her that she had never, in the curious course of her life, had allowed herself to be photographed. until three years ago, until she met me. i searched, googled, and high-school year-booked her and came up with a big, fat nothing. her mother was dead and her father ran away after his second heart-attack, so i've got no one to lean on. i had to take her at her word. that she had never been photographed. and then, after our third date, after she had walked me home and kissed me goodbye on the blue porch, i snuck the almost nothing digital camera out of my jacket's secret-in-the-lining-pocket and took three pictures of her, walking back to her house. since then, i've taken three hundered and fourteen secret pictures of the most beautiful woman on earth. she was going to kill me.
i dove into the car through my open window. what happened, i asked, still askew from the tumble.
she was distracted. she said nothing. had she seen me.
what did you say, i prompted,waiting for her admission.
you did actually talk to them-
"yes."
the lie.
"i told them to take down the fucking fence."
a pause.
"please. i said take down the fucking fence, please."
no, she hadn't. she had sat on the steps and looked beautifully at a hummingbird.
she just lied to me.
wait.
what do i do now?
how do i tell her that i know she didn't because i was watching her. was taking her picture. that she hadn't actually done a brave and perilous and brilliant thing. that she had merely thought it, dreamed it up, fantasized it. that she didn't need to do it, that i loved watching her step those few first purposeful steps toward the house and out of my line-of-sight. that she was a practicing heroine. and that i had the picture to make it true, to seal it up for good, the penultimate vision with which i would remember her forever more.
i looked at her in profile. lips turned up in lie, eyes moving behind her ray-bans, too fast i could tell by sensing the vibrations of her muscles. i rolled down my window, and turned up the radio.
and i banked it,
and i've kept it as a secret ever since.
knowing a secret
and keeping it
is a lovely thing
and unable to be found
any more often
than her in
the perfect
sunlight.
cliff jumping and all of it's against-the-need-for-survival giddiness
the diffusion of anxiety by the muddy bottom
the cold water
and that deep breath just above it.
writing is my excuse
to be insane
illogical
and
not
get
caught
a secret:
i don't understand the fence. "the two houses looked so lovely together," she said when we had turned the corner. through the car window, two women doing the dishes. she had slowed and was crawling, not sure if the fence had been real or imagined. one of the dish-women looked up. she noted the car, probably, the fact that there was a strange man inside, with beard and ray-ban wayfarer's staring right at her, and possibly the color of the body. i noted that it was 3:13 pm, thinking that it might be better if i knew the time, just in case she reported to the police under cause of suspician- "3:13 pm," i could tell the officer, "i noted that the occuser looked at me, a split second before, long before, i looked at her." 3:13 pm. the fence had indeed been built, between to california craftsmen, built themselves in the twenties, just one year apart, on the same corner of fort stockton and eagle. they weren't twins, not by a long shot, but both were low-rolling and slept eight comfortably, two to a bedroom and two on the living room rug. the corner house was brighter, less severe, and had a beautiful rounded frieze around the front porch. red, we called her, with her red-painted steps. blue, her sister, was fortified against howling storms, with a windowed porch, all battleship-towered and rectangled. red was warm, nice in the winter. blue was cool, a cavern of cold air in the summer. between them grew grapes and grapefruits and kumquats and endless insect-highways of night-blooming jasmine. a patio, trellised and morning-bright, directly between the two. there we would sit and drink coffee, her reading a rocky and long-winded American Journal of Geoarchaeology, and me half a New Yorker and three pages of her latest thesis. she studied too much, and too often. but she was good in bed. the fence cut it directly in half, that porticullo patio of ours. right down the middle. if we had been sitting there when it built itself, we would have ended up one of us on each side. in our own yard. they had built the fucking thing and split us up. hypothetically. the dish-woman had long-since alerted her parter (friend?sister-in-law?teaching-assistant?) of our presence. i think we'd better go, was all i could say. i didn't know that she had been crying until she looked right at me. "go back," she said. serious. and so i did. i was sure the dish-woman would dial 9-1-1, and i was sure that our good luck would result in us only being shot through the legs trying to run away." i'm knocking on the door", she said, "and i'm telling them to take it down." ladies and tenants and newly married home-buyers, tear down your walls! you are not, i said. i am, i am, i am. (her again).
i know her well. i know her good, and i know her bad. and sometimes, she'll just get up and do something that i never would have expected, not in a week, not in a month, not in ten years of imagining the things she would do. stay in the car, she whispered to me with bedroom intensity. i stayed in the car. i watched her move up the red steps, her steps. she sat down. she stood up. she was wearing white skinny leg jeans. they looked good against the stairs. i wanted to take a picture. in the glove box, the old camera that i kept there for sunsets and moments of unparelled and never-to-be-repeated beauty. of which this, the white skinny leg jeans on the red stairs, was one. i got out of the car, with the intention of taking pictures, a dozen or more, when i suddenly discovered that i needed only one. she was looking away, across her right shoulder, at a hummingbird up above the grapefruit tree, floating like they do, humming. the sun was gold, yellow, and everything was glowing in the non-warmth of a low sunset. to be less poetic: it was the most beautiful fucking thing i had ever seen. and i took it. i took it, and i meant to follow her up, and kiss her on the porch, and pound the door off of it's hinges and convince them with fists or words or lips to tear the fench down, when she stood up. and instead of walking towards the house. she began to walk away from it, and back to the car.
it is important to know about her that she had never, in the curious course of her life, had allowed herself to be photographed. until three years ago, until she met me. i searched, googled, and high-school year-booked her and came up with a big, fat nothing. her mother was dead and her father ran away after his second heart-attack, so i've got no one to lean on. i had to take her at her word. that she had never been photographed. and then, after our third date, after she had walked me home and kissed me goodbye on the blue porch, i snuck the almost nothing digital camera out of my jacket's secret-in-the-lining-pocket and took three pictures of her, walking back to her house. since then, i've taken three hundered and fourteen secret pictures of the most beautiful woman on earth. she was going to kill me.
i dove into the car through my open window. what happened, i asked, still askew from the tumble.
she was distracted. she said nothing. had she seen me.
what did you say, i prompted,waiting for her admission.
you did actually talk to them-
"yes."
the lie.
"i told them to take down the fucking fence."
a pause.
"please. i said take down the fucking fence, please."
no, she hadn't. she had sat on the steps and looked beautifully at a hummingbird.
she just lied to me.
wait.
what do i do now?
how do i tell her that i know she didn't because i was watching her. was taking her picture. that she hadn't actually done a brave and perilous and brilliant thing. that she had merely thought it, dreamed it up, fantasized it. that she didn't need to do it, that i loved watching her step those few first purposeful steps toward the house and out of my line-of-sight. that she was a practicing heroine. and that i had the picture to make it true, to seal it up for good, the penultimate vision with which i would remember her forever more.
i looked at her in profile. lips turned up in lie, eyes moving behind her ray-bans, too fast i could tell by sensing the vibrations of her muscles. i rolled down my window, and turned up the radio.
and i banked it,
and i've kept it as a secret ever since.
knowing a secret
and keeping it
is a lovely thing
and unable to be found
any more often
than her in
the perfect
sunlight.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
i will go in this way
the last time it happened, we broke each other's hearts. like arms. like carrot sticks, we bit them off and they made a sweet snap and for a moment the cold felt good, and it was nutritious. and then i got in my car, and you got on your bike, and we went in the most opposite directions, ultimately in a straight line, never parallel on accident or on purpose, but as lost as possible.
i spent hours in the coffee shop, waiting for anything to take my mind off of the red brick walls and painted bookshelves and pots and pans hanging over our heads that reminded me of you. the sights and sounds of coming home, the water pressure, the lost backyard and the unbearable empty stage beneath the roofs of our mouths-
don't take painkillers, i could have said
and don't throw up after you eat
don't forget to say hello, you could have said
and learn how to fucking love everything
and i didn't
and i still don't
but the last time i really tried
i wasn't sure if it even got through to you
i want to show you my tattoo
and let you know that
even though
i'm the same
i'm really very different
life is like having a dream, where you fall in love with the girl who grew up next to your grandparent's house. but also, your apartment is infested with crawling things that disappear down the drain and wait for your bare feet. so when you wake up, you're happy to have your feet but broken to have lost that love.
i spent hours in the coffee shop, waiting for anything to take my mind off of the red brick walls and painted bookshelves and pots and pans hanging over our heads that reminded me of you. the sights and sounds of coming home, the water pressure, the lost backyard and the unbearable empty stage beneath the roofs of our mouths-
don't take painkillers, i could have said
and don't throw up after you eat
don't forget to say hello, you could have said
and learn how to fucking love everything
and i didn't
and i still don't
but the last time i really tried
i wasn't sure if it even got through to you
i want to show you my tattoo
and let you know that
even though
i'm the same
i'm really very different
life is like having a dream, where you fall in love with the girl who grew up next to your grandparent's house. but also, your apartment is infested with crawling things that disappear down the drain and wait for your bare feet. so when you wake up, you're happy to have your feet but broken to have lost that love.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
coffee black
the coffee is burnt
and tastes like
layers of paint
peeling off bridges
over brackish rivers.
and tastes like
layers of paint
peeling off bridges
over brackish rivers.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
missive
do you think i care
about they way
things are supposed
to be done?
you are:
homemade macaroni and cheese
really good science fiction short stories
my favorite episode of every tv show i've ever loved
turning off the porch light
the breaking of winter
and
a little bit
too much
i can't write a poem
to save my life.
i can't write a song
that makes you my wife
(or at least
the person
who drinks
the extra
coffee
that i make)
i want to do something
volcanic
magnetic
disruptive
hopeful
disinterested in
my own happiness
without borders
and
without
pollution.
i wandered through the town you're from, and heard about the things you'd done. just when i thought they'd said enough, i turned around and heard you laugh. the city escaped in your breath, and everything that was black and white found color again.
about they way
things are supposed
to be done?
you are:
homemade macaroni and cheese
really good science fiction short stories
my favorite episode of every tv show i've ever loved
turning off the porch light
the breaking of winter
and
a little bit
too much
i can't write a poem
to save my life.
i can't write a song
that makes you my wife
(or at least
the person
who drinks
the extra
coffee
that i make)
i want to do something
volcanic
magnetic
disruptive
hopeful
disinterested in
my own happiness
without borders
and
without
pollution.
i wandered through the town you're from, and heard about the things you'd done. just when i thought they'd said enough, i turned around and heard you laugh. the city escaped in your breath, and everything that was black and white found color again.
Monday, April 19, 2010
for uncle joe
my uncle joe went missing last november, and his body was found about a week ago. my family held a small memorial service for him tonight, and while i was unable to be there, i was able to read a little poem i wrote over the speaker-phone. this is for my uncle, of course, but also for my cousin joey, who lost his father.
I know some people like to pray, and some people like to go to church-
well, my prayer is writing things down
and my church is walking next to the ocean
so I did both of those things this week, for Uncle Joey.
maybe there is no place for the mad ones
the different ones
the one-of-a-kinds.
maybe family is the only place
and knowing that we are all knocked off the same block
of crazy granite/
with the same veins of purple quartz
but all in maddeningly different shapes.
the geology of us
is changed now
and will change again
and again
unceasingly
as the years bring
more rain and snow and hot summers
but it is all we can do
to love this tired,
flawed,
miraculous,
disappointing,
beautiful
life
as
the mad ones do
there is no perfection
no answer
and no secret-
there is only us
and our granite family.
I know some people like to pray, and some people like to go to church-
well, my prayer is writing things down
and my church is walking next to the ocean
so I did both of those things this week, for Uncle Joey.
maybe there is no place for the mad ones
the different ones
the one-of-a-kinds.
maybe family is the only place
and knowing that we are all knocked off the same block
of crazy granite/
with the same veins of purple quartz
but all in maddeningly different shapes.
the geology of us
is changed now
and will change again
and again
unceasingly
as the years bring
more rain and snow and hot summers
but it is all we can do
to love this tired,
flawed,
miraculous,
disappointing,
beautiful
life
as
the mad ones do
there is no perfection
no answer
and no secret-
there is only us
and our granite family.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
unexpected
a late happy birthday shout out
to the most important little sister
ever invented
and a very, very early one
to the most impressive
older variety
a brother
could
ever
hope
to have.
Mr. Elizabeth Taylor is asleep on my bed, and I am drunk with the knowledge that I have finished yet another progressive draft of Attican, an old one-act of mine that has been breathing new life this week. I forgot how much I wanted to finish telling the story for the characters. Tonight I rest easy knowing that I have two fewer lost souls bouncing around in my brain. Don't get me wrong, there are a whole lot of lads and lasses with interesting names getting into all sorts of trouble in my head. But tonight, for Demetrius and Alma, sleep comes as last.
Can I get any more effin' dramatic? That's what you get when you write plays. I've been meditating on friendship, which is an interesting situation in Buddhism, because so much of what friends share is based on the past and the future. How much of it is in the actual moment? How much of it is happening right now, as I type this.
so many people have told me
'oh, i've never listened to the grateful dead.'
and i wonder how
that could happen
to someone
who grows up
in
Southern California.
so i've taken it
upon myself
to spread the world
of the apostle
jerry
and his merry
band
of
knap.
goodnight moon.
to the most important little sister
ever invented
and a very, very early one
to the most impressive
older variety
a brother
could
ever
hope
to have.
Mr. Elizabeth Taylor is asleep on my bed, and I am drunk with the knowledge that I have finished yet another progressive draft of Attican, an old one-act of mine that has been breathing new life this week. I forgot how much I wanted to finish telling the story for the characters. Tonight I rest easy knowing that I have two fewer lost souls bouncing around in my brain. Don't get me wrong, there are a whole lot of lads and lasses with interesting names getting into all sorts of trouble in my head. But tonight, for Demetrius and Alma, sleep comes as last.
Can I get any more effin' dramatic? That's what you get when you write plays. I've been meditating on friendship, which is an interesting situation in Buddhism, because so much of what friends share is based on the past and the future. How much of it is in the actual moment? How much of it is happening right now, as I type this.
so many people have told me
'oh, i've never listened to the grateful dead.'
and i wonder how
that could happen
to someone
who grows up
in
Southern California.
so i've taken it
upon myself
to spread the world
of the apostle
jerry
and his merry
band
of
knap.
goodnight moon.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
strange days, these days
on monday, i adopt a cat. his name is elizabeth taylor, but i'm going to call him albee.
tracy chapman, as confusing as she is to adolescent boys, should be sold in the produce aisle. she's as necessary as potatoes and bananas. it's like the goodness of the whole earth has been exhaled as music.
i don't understand key changes. something as complete as a chord, suddenly shifting completely different, but the same. so when i play guitar, i often stay in one key as long as possible. it's like i'm floating piece of the artic shelf that as broken off. and i don't want to jump to the next. i just want to drift in happy blue and white.
missing the people of home. missing people in general. staying busy, but having a hard time actually connecting. med adjustment? fuck that. a little bit of staying up late, pounding on a typewriter while the neighbors fuck each others' brains out- that's how i adjust my meds.
when i was a baby, and when i was a kid, i can't remember those things. my first memory is probably from when i was three or four years old. and they are sporadic after that until i was eight or nine. maybe this is normal. i think it must be. kids exist naturally, and are still part of the environments around them. why do you think they like ball pits so much? time moves differently for them. they almost never think about it. in fact, they probably don't even understand the concept of it. but as you grow up, it's taught to you. the idea of managing your life using time. and once you learn it, it never goes away. once the concept of death is introduced and understood, we begin to measure our lives differently. the past becomes supreme, and the future becomes sublime. we forget about the moment in between, the flash-second that is now, and how that is the only true existence we have. what we have, what we've done, and what we are going to do make absolutely no difference. they are created by us to preserve who we are. histories and futures are about as real as teenage mutant ninja turtles: innately, we understand their absurdity. but that doesn't stop us from making them the centers of our lives. (ok, so i don't know anyone who actually makes tmnt the center of his or her life, but i'm fairly certain that person exists, somewhere). there is a warped understanding of living in the moment that involves jumps out of airplane and canoe trips down the amazon. but all it really means is shedding the past a ceasing of forecasting the future.
jesus h. christ, i wrote too much about that.
going to bed now.
tracy chapman, as confusing as she is to adolescent boys, should be sold in the produce aisle. she's as necessary as potatoes and bananas. it's like the goodness of the whole earth has been exhaled as music.
i don't understand key changes. something as complete as a chord, suddenly shifting completely different, but the same. so when i play guitar, i often stay in one key as long as possible. it's like i'm floating piece of the artic shelf that as broken off. and i don't want to jump to the next. i just want to drift in happy blue and white.
missing the people of home. missing people in general. staying busy, but having a hard time actually connecting. med adjustment? fuck that. a little bit of staying up late, pounding on a typewriter while the neighbors fuck each others' brains out- that's how i adjust my meds.
when i was a baby, and when i was a kid, i can't remember those things. my first memory is probably from when i was three or four years old. and they are sporadic after that until i was eight or nine. maybe this is normal. i think it must be. kids exist naturally, and are still part of the environments around them. why do you think they like ball pits so much? time moves differently for them. they almost never think about it. in fact, they probably don't even understand the concept of it. but as you grow up, it's taught to you. the idea of managing your life using time. and once you learn it, it never goes away. once the concept of death is introduced and understood, we begin to measure our lives differently. the past becomes supreme, and the future becomes sublime. we forget about the moment in between, the flash-second that is now, and how that is the only true existence we have. what we have, what we've done, and what we are going to do make absolutely no difference. they are created by us to preserve who we are. histories and futures are about as real as teenage mutant ninja turtles: innately, we understand their absurdity. but that doesn't stop us from making them the centers of our lives. (ok, so i don't know anyone who actually makes tmnt the center of his or her life, but i'm fairly certain that person exists, somewhere). there is a warped understanding of living in the moment that involves jumps out of airplane and canoe trips down the amazon. but all it really means is shedding the past a ceasing of forecasting the future.
jesus h. christ, i wrote too much about that.
going to bed now.
Friday, March 5, 2010
opinions (unabridged and uncensored)
here it goes:
three things happened this week that have stuck with me. the university i went to is letting down its students in a time of terrible need. there have been a series of "escalating events" (why the cliche? why not just call them what they are: racially motivated fuck-ups by kids who are so distanced from reality that they don't realize how much pain they can cause.) what can ucsd do to save itself? they've got to stop erasing the rough edges. that can be expected at a school heavy on medicine, engineering and science. you learn about people by experiencing their history and their art. by hearing their languages and tasting their food. there is a dual failure at ucsd- by the administration for not encouraging true cross-cultural exploration, and by the students for not demanding it. as a transfer student, i was amazed at the lack of diversity on campus. city college, nestled on the edge of downtown san diego, was far more diverse than UCSD could every dream of being. i learned far more for $26 a credit than i did for $200. and it was all because of environment full of rough edges. my solution: art. yeah, i know, im a theatre guy. but storytelling is the most effective way to get somebody's attention. and there is no better way to tell a story than with art. music, theatre, painting, dancing, cooking- all of it rolled into one big ball of culture.
a high school girl disappeared from northern san diego earlier this week. i think that everyone feared the worst, and they found her body a few days later. she had gone jogging in a park near her house. i understand that this sort of thing happens all the time. but it still breaks you a little bit, and it makes you mad. it is an example of an event that has absolutely no positive side to it. it reminds us all that the world is dangerous, and that anything can happen at any time. the taking of someone else's life is the closest thing to evil that exists. the closest thing to good? falling in love.
i'm adopting a kitten. his name is albee elizabeth taylor. i can't really put into words how excited i am about this. maybe it's because animals have a way of explaining how the world is still a good place to be.
i'm tired, and i'm going to bed.
three things happened this week that have stuck with me. the university i went to is letting down its students in a time of terrible need. there have been a series of "escalating events" (why the cliche? why not just call them what they are: racially motivated fuck-ups by kids who are so distanced from reality that they don't realize how much pain they can cause.) what can ucsd do to save itself? they've got to stop erasing the rough edges. that can be expected at a school heavy on medicine, engineering and science. you learn about people by experiencing their history and their art. by hearing their languages and tasting their food. there is a dual failure at ucsd- by the administration for not encouraging true cross-cultural exploration, and by the students for not demanding it. as a transfer student, i was amazed at the lack of diversity on campus. city college, nestled on the edge of downtown san diego, was far more diverse than UCSD could every dream of being. i learned far more for $26 a credit than i did for $200. and it was all because of environment full of rough edges. my solution: art. yeah, i know, im a theatre guy. but storytelling is the most effective way to get somebody's attention. and there is no better way to tell a story than with art. music, theatre, painting, dancing, cooking- all of it rolled into one big ball of culture.
a high school girl disappeared from northern san diego earlier this week. i think that everyone feared the worst, and they found her body a few days later. she had gone jogging in a park near her house. i understand that this sort of thing happens all the time. but it still breaks you a little bit, and it makes you mad. it is an example of an event that has absolutely no positive side to it. it reminds us all that the world is dangerous, and that anything can happen at any time. the taking of someone else's life is the closest thing to evil that exists. the closest thing to good? falling in love.
i'm adopting a kitten. his name is albee elizabeth taylor. i can't really put into words how excited i am about this. maybe it's because animals have a way of explaining how the world is still a good place to be.
i'm tired, and i'm going to bed.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
conversation
do you know what you remind me of?
(no.)
winter.
(and?)
being cold.
(uh-huh. and i suppose that's your way of telling me-)
i like being cold.
(nobody likes being cold.)
sure they do. lots of fun things happen in the cold.
(like?)
rosy cheeks. snowball fights.
(runny noses. frostbite.)
you can see your breath.
(black ice.)
sure, but that's expected. it's just a by-product of the cold.
(by-product into the fucking ditch.)
you can expect it. you can prepare for it. you can throw a bag of sand in the trunk.
(you need to prepare for me?)
yeah, of course. not the same way, but metaphorically, yes-
(you know what you remind me of?)
-but you are something that i can prepare for. i like that. if i said you were like black ice in the summertime- what do i remind you of?
(my high school physics teacher.)
oh.
(he had a pony tail. and wore a lot of flannel. and played nirvana before class.)
i remind you of a mid-90's pac-northwest thirty-something-
(i wanted to blow him under his desk.)
jesus christ.
(i told susie kemper. at a sleepover. that i had a dream about sleeping with him. she rolled her eyes. the next day in class, someone had carved "SLUT" into my lab bench with a pocket knife.)
jesus.
(high school was never the same after that.)
a moment
hey.
(hey.)
you know what i like?
(easy girls?)
shoveling snow.
(blow jobs?)
trees without leaves.
(knee-high socks?)
chopping firewood.
(me wearing flannel pajamas.)
yes.
(and thermal underwear?)
promise?
(just one thing, ok? keep me warm.)
you're gonna love the winter.
(no.)
winter.
(and?)
being cold.
(uh-huh. and i suppose that's your way of telling me-)
i like being cold.
(nobody likes being cold.)
sure they do. lots of fun things happen in the cold.
(like?)
rosy cheeks. snowball fights.
(runny noses. frostbite.)
you can see your breath.
(black ice.)
sure, but that's expected. it's just a by-product of the cold.
(by-product into the fucking ditch.)
you can expect it. you can prepare for it. you can throw a bag of sand in the trunk.
(you need to prepare for me?)
yeah, of course. not the same way, but metaphorically, yes-
(you know what you remind me of?)
-but you are something that i can prepare for. i like that. if i said you were like black ice in the summertime- what do i remind you of?
(my high school physics teacher.)
oh.
(he had a pony tail. and wore a lot of flannel. and played nirvana before class.)
i remind you of a mid-90's pac-northwest thirty-something-
(i wanted to blow him under his desk.)
jesus christ.
(i told susie kemper. at a sleepover. that i had a dream about sleeping with him. she rolled her eyes. the next day in class, someone had carved "SLUT" into my lab bench with a pocket knife.)
jesus.
(high school was never the same after that.)
a moment
hey.
(hey.)
you know what i like?
(easy girls?)
shoveling snow.
(blow jobs?)
trees without leaves.
(knee-high socks?)
chopping firewood.
(me wearing flannel pajamas.)
yes.
(and thermal underwear?)
promise?
(just one thing, ok? keep me warm.)
you're gonna love the winter.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
an unabridged first edition of my opinion
i don't write as much as as i should
and i never give my friends as much time
as i need to/
i think that i can solve
the mysterious things
like how to keep a happy cat
or how to properly disburse
my armies
to defend
my south american stronghold/
but i know that i can never
solve
the truly difficult things
like
math equations that take up more than
one line
or
how to be
in the face of love
like a lion roars
and then licks your face
with it's rough tongue/
i don't always eat right
but i love the taste of ginger
and chocolate
and coffee/
i don't know much about cars
but i want an old one
that smells like decades of suntan lotion
and has a top
that gets stuck
when i put it down/
i learn little things
and i never leave
whiskey
in
my
cup/
and if it is
your birthday
today
then
it's
glen livet
and
i
give
to
you
some
love
and
happ
iness
(and
a song i play
that makes it's way
across
fourteen states-
a radio station
playing
just for you.
happy birthday!)
and i never give my friends as much time
as i need to/
i think that i can solve
the mysterious things
like how to keep a happy cat
or how to properly disburse
my armies
to defend
my south american stronghold/
but i know that i can never
solve
the truly difficult things
like
math equations that take up more than
one line
or
how to be
in the face of love
like a lion roars
and then licks your face
with it's rough tongue/
i don't always eat right
but i love the taste of ginger
and chocolate
and coffee/
i don't know much about cars
but i want an old one
that smells like decades of suntan lotion
and has a top
that gets stuck
when i put it down/
i learn little things
and i never leave
whiskey
in
my
cup/
and if it is
your birthday
today
then
it's
glen livet
and
i
give
to
you
some
love
and
happ
iness
(and
a song i play
that makes it's way
across
fourteen states-
a radio station
playing
just for you.
happy birthday!)
Sunday, February 21, 2010
she had a black eye, and wouldn't tell me why
rain makes me change my mind
like
"that sounds good to eat"
maybe
orange chicken and rice
but
i get home
take off my wet jacket
and eat pretzels and yogurt.
or
i sing the rolling stones
on my bike
but
i get home
shake out my beard
and it's charlie parker
with a hendrix chaser.
and i remember
all the times that it has rained
and all the windows i've opened
to let in
the muddy fingerpaints
of god.
or
the times
that i forget
how old i am
and i close my eyes
and lie down on the earth
inhaling
all the times
at once.
like
"that sounds good to eat"
maybe
orange chicken and rice
but
i get home
take off my wet jacket
and eat pretzels and yogurt.
or
i sing the rolling stones
on my bike
but
i get home
shake out my beard
and it's charlie parker
with a hendrix chaser.
and i remember
all the times that it has rained
and all the windows i've opened
to let in
the muddy fingerpaints
of god.
or
the times
that i forget
how old i am
and i close my eyes
and lie down on the earth
inhaling
all the times
at once.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
calamity, my daughter's name
the messiest parts of
life and also the
best, the happy
warmth of being
surrounded by
calamity, misunderstanding,
past-due notices
and
shepard's pie
with french bread
eaten on the floor
of an empty
apartment.
life and also the
best, the happy
warmth of being
surrounded by
calamity, misunderstanding,
past-due notices
and
shepard's pie
with french bread
eaten on the floor
of an empty
apartment.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Open-source Theatre
Open-source Theatre
Coming soon to San Diego, California
Swarming with local writers, directors, designers and actors.
What is "open-source"?
Usually referring to the practice of providing access to the source code for software, allowing for manipulation and programming by users, "open source" is a state of mind that relies heavily on the collected ideas of a large, non-hierarchical group of individuals. Open source projects can thrive only through transparency, integrity, and dedication to the task at hand.
So what is an open source theatre?
Primarily, we work with sources that have no copyright. Ideally, those sources (text, music, dance, video) are created by our team. On a deeper level, the open source creation process then allows for an incubation period where we get to know the material. Readings, workshops and exercises are utilized, and every idea is explored for inspiration.
Where do you perform?
Wherever and whenever we can. Living rooms, coffee shops, public parks, and even (sometimes) legitimate theatres.
What should the audience expect?
To be surprised, inspired, pissed off, rotated, adjusted, malfunctioned, rebooted, rewritten and rewired.
Patrons should expect a story-telling experience relying heavily on the generous talents of the creative team. we place an emphasis on innovation, team work, and a steadfast belief that theatre plays an important role in our community.
And with that, a theatre is born.
rizzoraab@gmail.com
Coming soon to San Diego, California
Swarming with local writers, directors, designers and actors.
What is "open-source"?
Usually referring to the practice of providing access to the source code for software, allowing for manipulation and programming by users, "open source" is a state of mind that relies heavily on the collected ideas of a large, non-hierarchical group of individuals. Open source projects can thrive only through transparency, integrity, and dedication to the task at hand.
So what is an open source theatre?
Primarily, we work with sources that have no copyright. Ideally, those sources (text, music, dance, video) are created by our team. On a deeper level, the open source creation process then allows for an incubation period where we get to know the material. Readings, workshops and exercises are utilized, and every idea is explored for inspiration.
Where do you perform?
Wherever and whenever we can. Living rooms, coffee shops, public parks, and even (sometimes) legitimate theatres.
What should the audience expect?
To be surprised, inspired, pissed off, rotated, adjusted, malfunctioned, rebooted, rewritten and rewired.
Patrons should expect a story-telling experience relying heavily on the generous talents of the creative team. we place an emphasis on innovation, team work, and a steadfast belief that theatre plays an important role in our community.
And with that, a theatre is born.
rizzoraab@gmail.com
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
it's not much
she used to tell me, in her god-voice, that it would always be just a puddle-jump away. and tonight, as i stood staring up at rain clouds in a world that was the opposite of on fire, i understood what she had always been trying to tell me. between me and my car, me and my radio, me and my warm bed, was a ferocious, man-eating, black-as-asphalt puddle.
lines are written to be spoken.
we're all only sailors on an upside-down sea
where we'll all land is a mystery to me
only that there will be hope
and something to taste
and monsters to wrestle
and chances to take.
lines are written to be spoken.
we're all only sailors on an upside-down sea
where we'll all land is a mystery to me
only that there will be hope
and something to taste
and monsters to wrestle
and chances to take.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
two nothings and a rumor
boom boom boom.
and then nothing.
and then, again: boom, boom, boom.
it was thunder in rapid succession, like he'd never heard it before. but it wasn't supposed to happen like that, was it? it should have been a surprise, an interruption to the rain tapping on the cold window like dead fingers, a proclamation of the inability of man to control the rhythm of the skies. but there it was, and again. and again.
boom, boom, boom.
---------------------
on the edge to the point that she could feel the sand crumbling under her feet, elizabeth contemplated the enormity of the sea, which shot straight up into the black night, rode round the world like a sopping wraith, and crashed on the shore beneath her, swallowing up sand and rock like a terrible hungry whale. "two similes in the same sentence," she thought. "if i don't do it now, i never will." outer space sunk to earth like a heavy example of every twist in every science fiction story she had ever read. like the decayed teeth of all the god's that ever existed. "fuck," she thought, stepping away from the edge. "that was two more." her brain spun like a galaxy, pain exploding into beautiful clouds, and happiness warming the tip of her nose.
she never saw him watching, waiting with a blanket and coffee and a story about a girl and the sea. he sighed and turned away. she'd be back, and he'd be waiting.
---------------------------------------
without the ability to push air past vocal cords, how can a ghost speak, sing, or howl?
and then nothing.
and then, again: boom, boom, boom.
it was thunder in rapid succession, like he'd never heard it before. but it wasn't supposed to happen like that, was it? it should have been a surprise, an interruption to the rain tapping on the cold window like dead fingers, a proclamation of the inability of man to control the rhythm of the skies. but there it was, and again. and again.
boom, boom, boom.
---------------------
on the edge to the point that she could feel the sand crumbling under her feet, elizabeth contemplated the enormity of the sea, which shot straight up into the black night, rode round the world like a sopping wraith, and crashed on the shore beneath her, swallowing up sand and rock like a terrible hungry whale. "two similes in the same sentence," she thought. "if i don't do it now, i never will." outer space sunk to earth like a heavy example of every twist in every science fiction story she had ever read. like the decayed teeth of all the god's that ever existed. "fuck," she thought, stepping away from the edge. "that was two more." her brain spun like a galaxy, pain exploding into beautiful clouds, and happiness warming the tip of her nose.
she never saw him watching, waiting with a blanket and coffee and a story about a girl and the sea. he sighed and turned away. she'd be back, and he'd be waiting.
---------------------------------------
without the ability to push air past vocal cords, how can a ghost speak, sing, or howl?
Friday, January 15, 2010
(boy) and girl
(a list. not groceries. ok. maybe a few groceries. but only the necessary items for survival.)
survival?
(yes.)
emotional survival?
(no. physical survival. but, since you mention it, i'll throw something on there to make me happy, too.)
to make you happy?
(yes. to make me happy. what would make you happy?)
those miniature peanut butter cups.
(okay. i can add those, as well.)
what makes you happy?
(reed's extra ginger beer.)
beer? yech!
(it's not really beer. it's good for tummy aches.)
oh. and what else?
(tortillas. and black beans. and cheese.)
you're going to survive. i can tell.
(and i'll make sure that you do, too.)
i'll survive better than you. i'll swim laps around you.
(that would make me happy.)
it's okay to sing along. i don't mind.
(i don't want to.)
i don't care. you don't sing enough. if we survive, you'll sing more.
(ok. i do want to. i can't remember the words and i'm never in tune.)
it's ok. i'll help you. we'll sing together. there are lots of songs for two people to sing.
(that sounds nice. i'm putting it on the list.)
did you remember the blankets?
(i brought two.)
mmm. the quilt. it smells like you.
(this one is warmer. it has fleece on the inside.)
it smells like the ocean. it's sandy.
(if we put them together, we'll be warm enough.)
you know what?
(what?)
i think i'm going to like this apocalypse.
survival?
(yes.)
emotional survival?
(no. physical survival. but, since you mention it, i'll throw something on there to make me happy, too.)
to make you happy?
(yes. to make me happy. what would make you happy?)
those miniature peanut butter cups.
(okay. i can add those, as well.)
what makes you happy?
(reed's extra ginger beer.)
beer? yech!
(it's not really beer. it's good for tummy aches.)
oh. and what else?
(tortillas. and black beans. and cheese.)
you're going to survive. i can tell.
(and i'll make sure that you do, too.)
i'll survive better than you. i'll swim laps around you.
(that would make me happy.)
it's okay to sing along. i don't mind.
(i don't want to.)
i don't care. you don't sing enough. if we survive, you'll sing more.
(ok. i do want to. i can't remember the words and i'm never in tune.)
it's ok. i'll help you. we'll sing together. there are lots of songs for two people to sing.
(that sounds nice. i'm putting it on the list.)
did you remember the blankets?
(i brought two.)
mmm. the quilt. it smells like you.
(this one is warmer. it has fleece on the inside.)
it smells like the ocean. it's sandy.
(if we put them together, we'll be warm enough.)
you know what?
(what?)
i think i'm going to like this apocalypse.
rant for theatre artists
There are currently THREE major development jobs open at theatres in the San Diego area. Two are Director positions, which means the ideal candidate would be able to lead the development (fund-raising) efforts for the entire institution. The third is responsible for corporate donations at that theatre. All three are well paying, full-time jobs, offering an array of benefits. Why is this important, and why am I writing about it?
Development departments have always been important to not-for-profit theatres- they can only afford to run their seasons with ample support from donors. It sounds quaint and non-alarming: an individual, family, or business decides that they would like to give some money to their favorite local theatre. They enjoy seeing shows there, and they realize that ticket sales don't cover the costs of putting on a play. (Musicals cost even more.) And in all cases, the artists employed by the theatres appreciate every donation that comes in, whether it be for $5 or $5 million. It is the downside of lacking a true national theatre program, and we will all have to deal with it throughout our theatrical careers. But at what point does a fund-raising development department become more important than, say, a theatre's education department? How about the artistic department? There is no way that a development staff is more valued by CEO's and managing directors than the artistic staff. Right?
We need to be worried. As artists, whether we are writers, actors, directors, designers or teachers, we need to be worried that the development departments of local theatres (LORT and non-Equity alike) are growing at a pace unparalleled in the history of theatre, despite a recession that is starving the theatre business as a whole. Individuals who may have been inclined to give small donations (under, let's say, $1,000) are double-checking their checkbooks. The small donations are evaporating. I should know. I can't even match my rather anemic 2008 donation of $15 to the Magic Theater in San Francisco. So where does a theatre's development department go to raise enough to cover the loss of 50 $1,000 donations? You guessed it. Corporations and the mega-rich.
Why would a corporation or wealthy individual give to a theatre? It is not an investment; they will not see any returns from ticket sales or merchandising. There are three answers to this question. The first, and hopefully (but probably not) the most accurate answer is that they felt that it was the right thing to do. They love the theatre, and they understand it's important role in a community. They just want to keep the curtain up. Oh, how I wish it were so simple. The second reason: taxes. Deductions. Sure, one could argue that it is great that money that would be given to the Government is given to local theatres instead. But with those donations, the control of the artists is taken away. Board members are elected, usually based on donation status. Those board members choose the upper echelon of theatre management, namely CEO's and Artistic Directors. We would have to be blind not to notice that corporations and wealthy donors OWN the American theatre. They have a heavy hand in who is in charge, which shows they choose, and who they choose to direct, design and perform them. Which brings me to reason number three: They donate to have control. A chairperson of the board at a LORT theatre has an astounding amount of influence and control. Their names are everywhere. Lobbies, stages, administrative buildings, and plazas are all "named" to pay tribute to donors. If you attend a play at the Old Globe in San Diego, for instance, you first cross Copley Plaza (with the requisite donor paver stones), have a latte at Lady Carolyn's Pub, located beneath the Donald and Darlene Shiley Terrace (porch) within the Karen and Donald Cohn Education Center (which also houses the Harvey and Sheryl White Theatre). Or, if you can afford it, you might join the Lipinsky Family Suite. When the lights flash, you head through the Jane and Victor Ottenstein Lobby, and sit before the Donald and Darlene Shiley Stage at the Old Globe Theatre. At the Conrad Prebys Theatre Center. Got all that? Don't worry. If you forget, there is ample signage to remind (or confuse) you. Oh, and for you curious creative types out there- none of the above designations refer to artists, past or present. All donors and board members. Why not name it the Craig Noel Theatre Center? He was, after all, responsible for keeping the theatre going for seven decades, directing countless shows, and spear-heading a rebuilding effort (which demonstrated the positive effects of development) after the original building burned down in the late 70's.
How could raising money for theatres be bad? It's not. But it is dangerous when developmental achievements becomes more important than artistic achievements. When names on buildings mean more than the art being created within. When tearing down a historic theatre that audiences adored to build a shiny new space (to the tune of $70 MILLION, during a "recession") becomes more important than keeping your full staff employed at competitive wages. But how do you raise that $70 million without promising the super-rich a place to put their names?
What happens to theatres when development and marketing staff begin to out-number artistic and education staff? Money becomes the measuring stick of success. Not community education, not production of challenging works, not artistic fulfillment. LORT theatres begin to gamble on Broadway success (a whole different rant), CEO's drive luxury sedans, and literary managers get laid off.
My challenge to donors (who will never read this): you are willing to donate millions to have your name in lights; are you willing to donate millions to save jobs, and forgo the opportunity to have your name splattered on our artistic institutions?
My challenge to theatres: you are willing to hire young, bright people to pry money out of the stingiest of hands; are you willing to hire young, bright people to maintain the integrity of your productions?
A theatre that does not, at every opportunity, challenge and educate it's community is no better than a giant, manually-powered television set. As a writer, I would much prefer to have my shows staged off-off Broadway, far from LORT, using minimal sets and costumes, rather than relinquish control of my stories to the hands of the CEO's and Board members of the big regional houses. They take all the magic out of the theatre.
Development departments have always been important to not-for-profit theatres- they can only afford to run their seasons with ample support from donors. It sounds quaint and non-alarming: an individual, family, or business decides that they would like to give some money to their favorite local theatre. They enjoy seeing shows there, and they realize that ticket sales don't cover the costs of putting on a play. (Musicals cost even more.) And in all cases, the artists employed by the theatres appreciate every donation that comes in, whether it be for $5 or $5 million. It is the downside of lacking a true national theatre program, and we will all have to deal with it throughout our theatrical careers. But at what point does a fund-raising development department become more important than, say, a theatre's education department? How about the artistic department? There is no way that a development staff is more valued by CEO's and managing directors than the artistic staff. Right?
We need to be worried. As artists, whether we are writers, actors, directors, designers or teachers, we need to be worried that the development departments of local theatres (LORT and non-Equity alike) are growing at a pace unparalleled in the history of theatre, despite a recession that is starving the theatre business as a whole. Individuals who may have been inclined to give small donations (under, let's say, $1,000) are double-checking their checkbooks. The small donations are evaporating. I should know. I can't even match my rather anemic 2008 donation of $15 to the Magic Theater in San Francisco. So where does a theatre's development department go to raise enough to cover the loss of 50 $1,000 donations? You guessed it. Corporations and the mega-rich.
Why would a corporation or wealthy individual give to a theatre? It is not an investment; they will not see any returns from ticket sales or merchandising. There are three answers to this question. The first, and hopefully (but probably not) the most accurate answer is that they felt that it was the right thing to do. They love the theatre, and they understand it's important role in a community. They just want to keep the curtain up. Oh, how I wish it were so simple. The second reason: taxes. Deductions. Sure, one could argue that it is great that money that would be given to the Government is given to local theatres instead. But with those donations, the control of the artists is taken away. Board members are elected, usually based on donation status. Those board members choose the upper echelon of theatre management, namely CEO's and Artistic Directors. We would have to be blind not to notice that corporations and wealthy donors OWN the American theatre. They have a heavy hand in who is in charge, which shows they choose, and who they choose to direct, design and perform them. Which brings me to reason number three: They donate to have control. A chairperson of the board at a LORT theatre has an astounding amount of influence and control. Their names are everywhere. Lobbies, stages, administrative buildings, and plazas are all "named" to pay tribute to donors. If you attend a play at the Old Globe in San Diego, for instance, you first cross Copley Plaza (with the requisite donor paver stones), have a latte at Lady Carolyn's Pub, located beneath the Donald and Darlene Shiley Terrace (porch) within the Karen and Donald Cohn Education Center (which also houses the Harvey and Sheryl White Theatre). Or, if you can afford it, you might join the Lipinsky Family Suite. When the lights flash, you head through the Jane and Victor Ottenstein Lobby, and sit before the Donald and Darlene Shiley Stage at the Old Globe Theatre. At the Conrad Prebys Theatre Center. Got all that? Don't worry. If you forget, there is ample signage to remind (or confuse) you. Oh, and for you curious creative types out there- none of the above designations refer to artists, past or present. All donors and board members. Why not name it the Craig Noel Theatre Center? He was, after all, responsible for keeping the theatre going for seven decades, directing countless shows, and spear-heading a rebuilding effort (which demonstrated the positive effects of development) after the original building burned down in the late 70's.
How could raising money for theatres be bad? It's not. But it is dangerous when developmental achievements becomes more important than artistic achievements. When names on buildings mean more than the art being created within. When tearing down a historic theatre that audiences adored to build a shiny new space (to the tune of $70 MILLION, during a "recession") becomes more important than keeping your full staff employed at competitive wages. But how do you raise that $70 million without promising the super-rich a place to put their names?
What happens to theatres when development and marketing staff begin to out-number artistic and education staff? Money becomes the measuring stick of success. Not community education, not production of challenging works, not artistic fulfillment. LORT theatres begin to gamble on Broadway success (a whole different rant), CEO's drive luxury sedans, and literary managers get laid off.
My challenge to donors (who will never read this): you are willing to donate millions to have your name in lights; are you willing to donate millions to save jobs, and forgo the opportunity to have your name splattered on our artistic institutions?
My challenge to theatres: you are willing to hire young, bright people to pry money out of the stingiest of hands; are you willing to hire young, bright people to maintain the integrity of your productions?
A theatre that does not, at every opportunity, challenge and educate it's community is no better than a giant, manually-powered television set. As a writer, I would much prefer to have my shows staged off-off Broadway, far from LORT, using minimal sets and costumes, rather than relinquish control of my stories to the hands of the CEO's and Board members of the big regional houses. They take all the magic out of the theatre.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
church-window memory #1
we knew the tornado was coming,
we could see it hiding
in the green sky
outside the cafe.
but in august,
the rain is warm
and the wind moves
like dancers
so
we waited
and drank italian sodas
at our table
by the window.
we could see it hiding
in the green sky
outside the cafe.
but in august,
the rain is warm
and the wind moves
like dancers
so
we waited
and drank italian sodas
at our table
by the window.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
the easiest thing to find
"sometimes i've loved too much in a short amount of time," he said. "a tiny amount, an itty bitty amount, far too small for so much love." he was always thinking in the time of rocks, the geologist. and rocks don't fall in love.
"rocks don't fall in love?"
"no."
"i think you're wrong. i think they do. it just takes them longer. a long, long time."
"but he wanted scientific proof, geological evidence."
"scientific evidence of love in rocks?"
"yes."
"rocks don't fall in love?"
"no."
"i think you're wrong. i think they do. it just takes them longer. a long, long time."
"but he wanted scientific proof, geological evidence."
"scientific evidence of love in rocks?"
"yes."
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
the mysterious sounds of skeletons
here's to that. it's important. writing on walls that aren't ours. keeping out of cornfields because they are sprayed with ***** that we don't want on our bodies. trying to count but being constantly interrupted by how many there are. listening to carl sagan, getting stoned, and realizing that he talks just like a muppet. reading fantasy novels for hours in the bathroom because sometimes you forget where you are. never changing the strings on your guitar. wearing your booth when you know there'll be puddles. using your fingers and your toes. wanting badly to discover a cave in your backyard.
i am a battlefield archaeologist. i specialize in the ancient wars kindled by beauty and killed by ingenuity.
i am a thick-skinned arborist. i tie myself to trees i like, and in turn i get all sticky with sap.
i am an under-the-bed astronaut. in that great unexplored space i find wormhole socks and clusters of galaxies.
i am a foul-mouthed writer of children's books. if their parents knew what words didn't make the cut, they wouldn't be able to stop laughing.
i am a cold river rope swing. my braided body holds you up in the sky, but if you don't let go you'll crash back to earth.
i am not much. just a little bit of everything. just like you.
i am a battlefield archaeologist. i specialize in the ancient wars kindled by beauty and killed by ingenuity.
i am a thick-skinned arborist. i tie myself to trees i like, and in turn i get all sticky with sap.
i am an under-the-bed astronaut. in that great unexplored space i find wormhole socks and clusters of galaxies.
i am a foul-mouthed writer of children's books. if their parents knew what words didn't make the cut, they wouldn't be able to stop laughing.
i am a cold river rope swing. my braided body holds you up in the sky, but if you don't let go you'll crash back to earth.
i am not much. just a little bit of everything. just like you.
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